


Of Galas and Ghastliness

by Linxcat



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linxcat/pseuds/Linxcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roughly translated, it really meant - "Throw a dinner party. Next Thursday. Invite everyone you enjoy irritating. And Mr De Worde doesn't like prawns."...Organise a gala at the palace for half the nobles on the Disc? Oh hell, thought Moist..</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Vetinari had suggested it, of course.

Actually, Vetinari didn't usually _have_ to go as far as to suggest; after a few years of seeing the Patrician more than twice a week, Moist had become an expert in translating every eyebrow quirk and each intonation. The sort of vital eyebrow movement and voice raising that turned "Delightful, Mr Lipwig." into "Go and sort it out, you absolute idiot, or you'll be in big trouble."

Whilst it made a very handy way of subtly communicating threats, it was also a way for Vetinari to advise the city's most charismatic civil servant and prod him in the right direction when outright saying information would not be appropriate. It was one such 'suggestion' that had forced _this_ ghastly situation upon him.

Moist had been giving the Patrician his usual bi-weekly report on the goings on of the various businesses under his command, when Vetinari had made a passing comment about how he and Adora had just recently finished the very finishing touches to their new dining room. This was followed by an arched eyebrow, during which he nodded once and remarked how it was usually profitable to keep your friends close, and those you may be forced to co-operate with later closer.

Roughly translated, it really meant - "Throw a dinner party. Next Thursday. Invite everyone you enjoy irritating. And Mr De Worde doesn't like prawns."

Unfortunately, Adora, being of the disposition that she was, really didn't like the idea of Vetinari orchestrating - or 'meddling', as she put it - their affairs. Perhaps she didn't know the Patrician as well as he did, or, more likely, she just didn't find him particularly intimidating. Moist hadn't worked out which one it was yet. He was afraid that he was going to find out that it was the second, but he knew there would be no convincing his wife; it was very difficult to describe the experience of being hung to half an inch of your life. She just didn't have the same awareness of her own mortality like he did, mainly because the things that most people were afraid of took one look at her and ran for the hills. Or, if she was in the direction of the hills, they ran the _other_ way.

"A dinner party next Thursday? Did he _actually_ say-"

"I told you, he never outright says anything; everything is based on interpretation!"

"Well, are you sure you interpreted him right?"

Moist was beginning to lose his patience. "Yes, Adora, I am!" he snapped.

"You don't need to shout." she said, lowering her pen from her Golem Trust work and raising her eyebrows at him. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"No, he never says anything outright. But its my job to interpret him, and I must be good at it because I'm not dead yet!"

"Either that," said Adora Belle, picking up her filofax and skimming through it, "Or you're so bad at it that it keeps him entertained."

"Thank you for that, dearest." Moist muttered, sitting down heavily in an armchair near his wife's desk and covering his face with his hands.

"No problem. Oh, for goodness sake, he would pick the only day of the week when we're busy!"

"What are we doing?" Moist asked, without removing his hands.

"Jovial and her delightful fiancé are coming to dinner; I need to discuss the annual campaign budget with her."

Ah, Jovial Smint. Moist had been involved in the interviewing process for his wife's assistant mainly because Adora was eight months pregnant at the time and had developed a tendency to throw things when she ran out of chocolate, but he had convinced her to hire the young lady on the basis that she would, at the very least, be good at dealing with customers.

Jovial was aptly named in that she was perpetually cheerful, whilst still retaining enough intelligence to keep her bearable. She was devoted to the Rights of a lot of things, but as there was a gap in the market in the Golem section particularly, that was where she had decided to devote her time.

Moist had taken it as a kind of experiment on the neurotic pregnant volcano that his wife had been at the time, and had been very surprised to find that she hadn't killed the poor young assistant within minutes.

On the contrary; Jovial was a perfect foil to Adora's cynicism, and being incredibly efficient and organized helped too. He was fairly sure that reason they got on so well was because Jovial was, for unknown reasons, one of the few people that was not afraid Adora in the slightest. She just didn't view her employer as a threat, which intrigued Adora. Jovial was very different from her other company - namely, Captain Angua and Sergeant Sally von Humperding, with Lady Sybil sometimes making an appearance (so a werewolf, a vampire and a duchess walked into a bar…gods knows how she'd managed to make friends with such a strange crowd) - and, as much as he loved his wife, it was refreshing to meet a woman that didn't feel the need to dominate everything she was involved in.

"So invite them too."

"Invite Jovial and Mr Herrington too…?" Adora considered it, then ran a hand through her hair, "Okay. Who else are we inviting? We need to make a guest list."

Moist stood up and accepted the piece of paper and pen that his wife passed him, "Right." He stood, poised, then felt like a journalist, so quickly dropped the pose, "Vetinari seems to expect that William De Worde will be there, since he mentioned his dislike of prawns, and-"

"He _said_ that?"

"Well," Moist shrugged, "He, uh, implied…"

"Implied. Right." Adora rolled her eyes, "And who else?"

Looking back, Moist realised how foolish his optimism had been. Silly things he'd thought, like, 'this shouldn't take too long' and 'we can pop around to the printing press after dinner and get them all ready to send out by tomorrow', sprung to mind.

What he hadn't anticipated was that, five hours later, he and Adora would still be cooped up in the study, mounds of paper all over the floor, the waste paper bin overflowing, trying to find the right combination of guests.

Moist took a bite out of a sandwich that was sitting near him. He wasn't sure if it was his or Adora's, but that was getting rather irrelevant. Horseradish. Hmm. Adora's then. He dipped it in a mug of Klatchian coffee that was sitting on his other side and took another bite.

"What about the Sto-Helits - well…Sto-Helit - Duchess Susan?" Adora showed him the entry in the newest edition of Who's Whom, "Lady Sybil probably knows her."

"Good idea, we should have a few people from other cities," Moist pointed the sandwich at her thoughtfully, "What about Lady Margolotta?"

"Only if we invite Vetinari, and half the nobles of Uberwald." she pointed out, causing her husband to groan and drop his head into his hands.

"We're stuck! It's a never-ending circle; we can't have too many people - we don't have room! - but we need enough to make sure what Vetinari _wants_ , happens. And that means we need important people from _everywhere_ here, circulating, so everyone starts to hate each other-"

"-And then they don't plot against him, I know, we've been through this."

There was a few moments of silence, then Adora's face lit up.

"I have an idea."

"What is it?" Moist jumped up and grabbed her hands, "Tell me!"

"You remember that old song, you know, 'Vetinari has no balls'?"

Moist blinked slowly, "…Well, yes, but I don't think that's really going to convince him-"

"Well, we can host the dinner party at the _palace_ , we could even - it could be a Midwinter Gala!"

"…To celebrate the new year!" He slapped his forehead, "How didn't I think of that before? Hogswatch was only last week, its a party to welcome in the new year! And the gala would be by invitation of Moist von Lipwig, so Vetinari wouldn't have to worry about not having balls!"

There was a few seconds where both parties stopped and thought about exactly what had just been said. The laughter that followed those seconds was rather delirious.

The cry of a baby from upstairs cut them out of their hysterics. Moist wiped his eyes, chuckled, then turned to his wife. "I'll go sort out John, you go down to the palace and talk to Vetinari."

Adora gave him an incredulous look, "Me?"

"Yes, you - you really have a way with him. I think he likes you. He's far more likely to say yes if you ask."

"Don't be a wimp, Moist," she rolled her eyes, "I'll go and sort out John, you get the coach ready, then we'll go together. Right?"

About half an hour later, the couple walked smartly through the doors of the Oblong Office. Vetinari didn't even look up.

"Ah, Mr Lipwig, Mrs Lipwig, good evening. It is past eleven o'clock, I do hope there is nothing amiss?"

"We're throwing a Midwinter Gala next Thursday. We'd like to hold it in the palace."

Moist strangled his impulse to clap his hands over Adora's mouth; she was so blunt - she had the subtlety of a five year old. No, worse, because she didn't even _try_ to be subtle! At least children sometimes did, even if it was a nudge-nudge-wink-wink affair. However, thankfully, the Patrician usually seemed to respond quite well to her unabashed forwardness.

"Next Thursday? A little short notice perhaps, but very well."

"You are invited of course, my Lord." Moist cut in quickly, "Hopefully there will be nobles from all over the Disc attending. And the invitations will be from Moist von Lipwig and wife, sir, so as not to - ah - disappoint public opinion."

There was a short pause.

"Quite." said Vetinari. And Moist decided it was a good time to leave.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE - I HAVE NO INTENTION OF MAKING THIS TEATIME/SUSAN! HE IS THERE BECAUSE SUSAN NEEDS A PARTNER (FOR REASONS MENTIONED) AND BECAUSE I AM RELUCTANT TO WRITE LOBSANG BECAUSE I HAVE NOT READ THEIF OF TIME AND WOULD BE WORRIED ABOUT KEEPING HIM IN CHARACTER

Susan sighed heavily; and it had started off as such a _normal_ week. On Sunday night she'd had a normal dinner, a very normal bath, with a normal amount of bubbles in at a normal temperature, then she'd got dressed into her very normal nightgown and got into her normal bed, blowing out her normal candle before falling into relatively normal sleep.

Then on Monday morning she'd woken up at a normal time, got out of bed and put on her normal dressing gown, walked down the normal stairs into the normal kitchen for a bloody _normal_ cup of coffee.

And found a dead assassin with the kettle, making hot chocolate. An assassin that she'd killed just the year before, a dead assassin who'd turned around, grinned brightly and asked her if she wanted marshmallows or not.

That was where the week got slightly less normal, sadly.

She'd thrown the poker at him again, without even thinking, but it had done little more than make him complain and nearly spill the drinks. When he removed it he'd kept careful hold of it and hadn't let her near the kettle, or any of the kitchen knives, either. And then he'd pressed the warm mug into her hands and chirped at her with that big stupid grin on his face until she'd hit him over the head with a frying pan.

"Susan!" he'd hissed, losing the cheerful tone from his voice for a moment, pulling the pan from her grip then grabbing her wrist and twisting it painfully, "You're not playing _fair_! I've been very polite, I haven't tried to hurt you, and I made you hot chocolate. I thought we were _friends!_ "

"Friends? You tried to kill me, and grandfather - and enslave the whole Disc! You're a murderer, a monster, a freak!" Susan, to her chagrin, had realised that she was shaking at this point. Disbelief and panic were throttling her senses, anger hadn't quite caught up yet. "And I killed you! You're _dead_!"

He'd tightened his grip on her wrist until she gasped, before dropping it. He'd stuck out his bottom lip in the manner of a small child, "That's very sad, Susan. I thought we were very good friends, we were having such _fun_! And then you went and killed me." He faltered for a second, then the malice had gone from his expression, replaced by the usual slash of white teeth. "But now I'm back, Susan! And we can have fun for simply ages!"

He'd made her promise on her grandfather not to hit him again before he would tell her exactly how he'd managed to return. He was a little hazy on the details, but what he did remember was that he'd been offered zombiedom, which he'd turned down on the premise that it 'wasn't particularly elegant'. And then he'd asked if there were any other options.

_Any other options_. He'd _asked_. The sheer audacity of the little bugger still astounded her. Since the conversation, she'd researched into the option that Teatime had been granted - poltergeism - and discovered that it was, essentially, a contract with the god of mischief with the intention to cause as much inconvenience as possible, even to the poltergeists themselves.

The poltergeist picked one being on the Disc, whose irritation would power their life energy. They could then live as a normal…individual, provided the irritation continued, until the source died, or just gave in and didn't find the poltergeist annoying anymore. In turn, whenever the poltergeist and subject interacted, the belief generated would go back to the god.

Teatime had chosen well, Susan thought with a scowl; indeed, he'd managed to live for nearly a year without even meeting her because she was generally such an irritable person. And the only way to get rid of him was to kill herself, which she really wasn't planning on doing anytime soon.

On the plus side, though. it meant that he was unable to kill her, which she was feeling very smug about, and it meant that it would be in his interests to step in in case anyone else tried. The protection of an assassin was not something to be sniffed at.

She ran herself a bath; it was a week later, he was still there - and he just wouldn't _leave_. She'd hoped that he'd just get bored and pick another target, but Teatime really seemed to be serious about the poltergeist thing. Yet another wave of irritation hit her as she realised it was going to be difficult to explain to Lobsang why she had this little cretin hanging around. She pushed the thought away with the twang of loneliness that it brought and concentrated on pouring in the bubble bath.

"You have a very large collection of rubber ducks, Susan."

"I - what?"

There he was, sitting cross-legged in the corner of her bathroom, examining the small bath toys one by one. He held each up for inspection, mismatched eyes wide in boyish curiosity, before tossing it down beside him and picking up the next.

"This one is purple and has a hat. Is it normal to have this many rubber ducks?"

_I don't know, I'm not normal_ was Susan's first answer.

"Yes." she said, somewhat defensively.

"Hmm." Teatime threw the purple be-hatted duck onto the pile and looked over his shoulder at her, "I don't know very much about being normal. I like to think that's something we have in common."

Susan glowered at him and screwed the lid back on the bubble bath with more force than was needed, "Something in common? We have nothing in common, Teatime! We are not _friends_ , I am not having _fun_ , and this is not a _game_ \- this is my _life_!"

Teatime's mouth twitched as he reclined back on the mountain of rubber ducks, hands behind his head. The image was a strange one to behold.

"Tee-ah-tim-eh, Susan." he purred, the dangerous edge back on his chirpy voice, "How many times do I have to tell you?"

" _Tea_ time." she spat. His eyes narrowed.

"I would reintroduce you to my knife, but I fear that would be useless, since we both know that I cannot kill you. More's the pity."

Susan stared at him, trying to communicate as much loathing as possible into one look, before her brain helpfully reminded her that every moment she spent hating him was another moment he got to live. She closed her eyes, then pinched the bridge of her nose, remembering her exact reason for being in the bathroom in the first place.

"Teatime, get out."

"Its Tee-ah-tim-eh. And that's not very polite, Susan. I am always very polite to you."

She rolled her eyes, "I'm having a bath. You need to leave. _Now_."

"Why?"

He blinked innocently up at her. She glared down at him.

"Go away, Teatime." she picked a loofah up and held it threateningly above her head. He eyed it warily.

"What if I promise not to look?"

She advanced, "It doesn't matter whether you look or not - well, it does, but - its principle! Get out!"

"Won't!" he folded his arms defiantly, "Its so boring hanging around without you, Susan, because the Guild hasn't given me any new clients yet. I won't look, I promise. I'll sit here in the corner and won't move at all."

She rubbed her eyes wearily, lowering the loofah, "Promise?"

"Promise."

She wasn't going to take any chances. Susan clicked her fingers to stop time, slipped out of her dress and into the bath, not restarting time until she'd arranged the bubbles very carefully.

"Oh, that's a very clever trick, Susan." Teatime grinned brightly at her from the other side of then room. She pulled the loofah a little closer. "Can you teach me? I could teach you how to use a knife properly, or how to flip on air, or-"

"It won't work with you, Teatime. You need to be part Death."

Teatime pouted, disappointed, and she picked up her book so she wouldn't have to see the disturbing childlike quality of his face. As she opened her rather heavy hardback copy of 'How to Exorcise your Poltergeist', something slipped out onto the floor.

"You dropped something, Susan. Here." In a flash, he was kneeling by the side of the bath and handing the slip of paper to her. She shrank further into the water and hefted the book at him.

"You said you wouldn't move!"

Needless to say, the book missed, and at any rate he was already back in his little corner with the rubber ducks, reproachful in his confusion. "I was being _polite_. What is it?"

"Its an invitation to a Midwinter Gala on Thursday, at the Patrician's palace. I hate galas." Susan scowled at the piece of paper, then dropped it into the bathwater, watching with some satisfaction as it turned to pulp.

"Then don't go." he resumed his inspection of the rubber ducks, turning one over in his hands before beheading it deftly with his knife. This seemed to amuse him, so he continued with the rest of the pile.

"Its not that simple. I represent Sto-Helit, so I have to go. And that means I have to go out and buy a new _dress_ , and try and get my hair to look half-tame, and then I have to find someone to go with me. I suppose I could ask Lobsang, but he's so busy…"

"Why do you need to go with someone?"

"Because there are always these ladies there - ones with ratty little husbands that make horrible remarks about how I'm not married yet," she pressed her lips together in a furious grimace, "And then they talk about my parents, and usually insult them, and then they pat me on the shoulder and say - ' _never mind, dear_!'"

Teatime edged a little closer to the door, putting away his knife to leave both hands free to catch any whirling loofahs that came his way; in the interest of self-preservation, he'd developed a sixth sense in the last week that most men took a lifetime to realise. It was called _Oh Shit, She's Upset_. Then an idea occurred to him.

"I'll go with you. I'm very good at dancing. And if I'm with you, _no one_ will want talk to you."

Susan stared at him, stunned; she hadn't realised that Teatime was aware of his effect on other people. She looked into his eyes and, for the first time, saw more man than boy.

"Thank you." she said quietly. Teatime's eyes unfocused and he swayed slightly on the spot.

"This isn't good. I think I need to start irritating you again, Susan…" His usual chirp was weak, lifting his hand to his head, "I'm feeling faint…"


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, so it had been a bit of a long shot.

And by long shot, he meant - the time it took to get from one end of Ankh-Morpork to the other. Blindfolded. On rollerskates. Carrying Carrot. Without dying.

"Sam…"

That was Sybil. She was using her I'm Not Angry I Just Want To See You Try And Get Out Of This voice, and if that voice had been given an entry in the Book Of Man under the section of Females (Vimes wished there was a Book Of Man with a section on Females), underneath it would be written 'You are doomed. But if you proceed with caution, you might not die.'

Vimes proceeded with caution, "Yes, dear?"

"Are you busy tomorrow evening?" she asked, in a very casual tone of voice, smiling at him.

He was doomed. He was going to die.

"No, dear. Why?" he replied, in a very casual tone of voice, smiling back.

"Well, I was having a very nice conversation with Mr Lipwig yesterday and he told me that there was going to be a Midwinter Gala at Havelock's place tomorrow."

"How lovely."

"And he said that he'd invited us."

"That's very kind of him."

"He said he was going to send out the invitation…"

"It must have gotten delayed. The weather's pretty bad at the moment."

"…But then he was passing Pseudopolis Yard…"

"It probably got caught up in the paperwork."

"…And he saw you outside…"

"Must have got the wrong person."

"…So he gave it to you…"

"Must have slipped my mind. I did hit my head very hard that day."

"…And I found it, ripped up into little pieces, in your coat pocket."

Vimes went for a Long Shot so magnificent that it definitely deserved its capitals.

"Those damn hamsters, they really do get everywhere."

And then Sybil laughed, and he knew he was going to live. But there was no way he was going to get out of that damn gala, short of maybe breaking his leg.

…How much did breaking your leg hurt, again?

-x-x-x-

"William! William, where are- oh, there you are, of course."

William De Worde looked up from his desk, standing and smiling at his wife as she approached excitedly, "Sacharissa?"

"I've just spoken to Moist - there's going to be a ball this week, on Thursday, at Vetinari's palace! Its strictly notebooks-closed, but that doesn't mean we can't do a nice little report on it for Friday's morning paper- oh, we could do a section on the best dress shops on Monday! We could interview all the dressmakers and have a different one featured each-"

"Sacharissa!" William caught his wife's hands to cut her out of her spiralling plans, "It _is_ Monday. And I doubt that most of the people that will read the paper will be invited."

"That doesn't mean they won't be _interested_." she pointed out, pulling back from him to relieve herself of her handbag and hat, then sitting on the side of his desk as he resumed work.

"Fair enough. Alright, we'll do a report on the ball, definitely, and we can get Otto to-" he paused, face lighting up as an idea hit him, "We can get Otto to stand in the entrance and offer to take pictures of the couples-"

"A copy for them and a copy for the Times!"

"Exactly. I'll talk to Otto later." William scribbled a quick note to himself on the corner of a bit of paper that was probably important.

"I can wear that dress you bought me for my birthday, William."

William smiled; part of their marriage was, if he was honest, convenience. They spent pretty much 24/8 together anyway, they usually got on exceptionally well, and no one else understood the constant and quite overwhelming need to find News.

And then there was this part of him, the part that had suggested the marriage as a passing thought in his whirling mind, the part that had woken up one morning and told the rest of him, without question, that he had fallen hopelessly in love with his pretty blonde co-worker. It had been a bit of a surprise, really - he strongly suspected that this part had been keeping it secret from the rest of him for quite a while, which worried him greatly - and he hadn't expected to fall for anyone, let alone Sacharissa.

Diligent, hardworking, steadfast, take-no-nonsense Sacharissa. The confident, beautiful young woman who, whilst being self-assured and strong, still needed someone to open jam jars and tell her she looked beautiful and save her from murderous thugs. And, somehow, he had become that someone.

He'd never been particularly suave. The proposal had been an abysmal failure, and he didn't like to think about it because it had been so damn embarrassing. He wasn't very good at being romantic but, thankfully, whilst Sacharissa adored that sort of thing, she found it even more endearing that he tried it, despite knowing he'd fail miserably. But this…this had been a stroke of genius that even Mr Smooth-Talker Lipwig would have appreciated.

Three months prior to her birthday ( _three months_ ), she'd seen a beautiful sky-blue and navy dappled dress and fallen in love. She'd tried on the one in the shop window and discovered that, due to her, ah, _pneumatic warmth_ and rather generous curvy hips, it was too tight and didn't fit particularly well around the waist or bust. She'd left the shop in low spirits with a self-esteem level to match, then forgot all about it in the new week's news rush.

He didn't forget. Seeing a perfect opportunity, he'd gone back to the shop the very next day, when Sacharissa was out, purchased the dress and paid the dressmaker to make the various adjustments needed for it to fit. It had cost him quite a bit of money - or, maybe it was the usual fee for such a service, he didn't know much about dresses - but the price had been well worth the look of absolute delight on her face when, on her birthday, she pulled the dress from its wrappings.

She had, at first, faltered and turned to him with a look of one trying to break something gently, but he'd insisted that she try it on. A few minutes later, when she returned, the dress a perfect fit and a smile that nearly reached from ear to ear, she looked absolutely radiant.

After long kiss that he would much rather have received when Otto and Gunilla Goodmoutain were not present and smirking, she'd murmured in his ear, "You got it altered, didn't you?"

"Altered?" he'd pulled back and blinked at her innocently, "No."

Okay, so he'd lied, properly flat-out lied, and it still made him twinge uncomfortably inside. But it had made her so _happy _, and harmless lies to make self-conscious women happy were forgivable, surely?__

__"Oh, where did I put that notebook…?"_ _

__William came back to the present with a jolt and realised Sacharissa was turning the small office they shared upside-down in her search._ _

__"Which one?"_ _

__"The one with the green cover."_ _

__"Most of your notebooks have green covers, dear."_ _

__She considered that, "The one with the huge ink blot on the front from where you jogged me when I was tidying up last week."_ _

__"Oh, that notebook. Its, um, on the floor over there." he shrugged, feeling foolish as he gestured to it, "You left it on my desk. I've never had great aim…"_ _

__"Hmm!" She sighed and picked it up, leafing through it with the eye of one searching for something specific. Then she put it down, distracted, and caught his eye._ _

__"Ah - William?" she smiled brightly in her very attractive way, and all at once he felt strangely nervous._ _

__"…Yes?"_ _

__She licked her lips and approached him, choosing her words carefully, "I know we've never really talked about this, because, you know, the job has always come first, but," she beamed anxiously, "I think I might be pregnant."_ _

__Sometimes, William thought that working in Public Interest had affected Sacharissa's priorities; 'William, darling, there's going to be a fantastic party on Thursday, I simply can't wait, I can wear my lovely dress! Oh, and I'm pregnant, thought you might want to know.'_ _

__Then, William's brain processed the words. And then, he passed out._ _


	4. Chapter 4

"My Lord, have you decided if you will be attending the gala on Thursday?"

Vetinari didn't look up from his paperwork, "There was no decision, Drumknott. You doubted I would be going?"

"Not at all my Lord, but Mr Lipwig likes to have certainty on these things."

"That's because he always has to interpret me, Drumknott." a wry smile pulled at the Patrician's lips.

"I understand Lady Margolotta will be going, my Lord." Drumknott said helpfully after a moment's pause.

"I believe she is, Drumknott. I'm sure her company will be…diverting, as usual."

"Yes, my Lord."

"And will you be attending the gala, Drumknott?"

"If your Lordship requires me to."

"I'm sure I can cope without you for one evening, Drumknott, but you may attend if you wish."

"Then I will be there, my Lord."

"I understand Lady Margolotta's clerk will be going, Drumknott."

Drumknott didn't miss a beat, "I'm sure her company will be diverting, as usual, my Lord."

Lord Vetinari dotted his last full stop. Drumknott straightened his files.

And nothing more needed to be said.

-x-x-x-

"I hate to use a hackneyed line," said Adora Belle, studying herself critically in the mirror, "But I have absolutely nothing to wear for tomorrow night."

"Absolutely nothing to wear?" Moist said incredulously, glancing up from his place on the bed, "Well then, I guess you'll just have to wear nothing. Perhaps you should try it on now."

"Very funny."

"I was being serious."

"I'm sure you were." Adora frowned, "What should I wear?"

Moist propped his head up on his hands; his wife was standing in front of the mirror in her nightgown, the doors of her expansive wardrobe thrown open as she examined its contents.

"I'm not suggesting anything because you'll say no to everything. Women always do."

"Moist…"

"Alright. Wear the green one."

Adora's expression shifted minutely. He rolled his eyes, "The purple one, then."

"I wore that the day before yesterday…"

"The blue one. The black one. The other black one. The grey one. I don't know, the luminous orange one."

She ignored his teasing and pulled a hanger out from the rest, "I think I'll wear the red one."

"Wonderful. You would have looked stunning in any of them, you know."

She hung it on the wardrobe door and gave it a once-over, "Yes, dear."

A year ago, the response would have been "I know." Moist noted it with trepidation but said nothing, slipping his arm around her as she lay down on the bed beside him and kissing her temple. She picked up the day's _Times_ and burst out laughing.

"What?"

"You've made the political cartoon. Its not bad, actually."

"Oh gods." he buried his face in her back and grimaced, "What does it say?"

"'Vetinari has no balls at all? We'll soon see about that!' And you seem to be holding - Good gods, I'm surprised De Worde let that be printed…"

"Let me guess," Moist lifted his head, "Looks like a pair of hairy potatoes?"

"You put it so tastefully, darling." she snickered, passing him the paper. He gave the picture a brief glance, winced, and threw it as far as he could. There was a comfortable pause.

"Can you think of any way I can get out of the gala tomorrow night?"

Adora squinted at him over her shoulder, "Get out of your own gala? Not short of dying, I'm afraid. Perhaps you can ask Vetinari to hang you again."

"Good idea…" Moist rested his head on her arm and frowned thoughtfully.

"Not a good idea."

"Because you love me and life would not be worth living without me?" he asked with a hopeful grin.

"Because life would be awfully dull without you."

"Good enough." he said, and kissed her.

-x-x-x-

Susan Sto-Helit smoothed out her dress, sat down on her bed, closed her eyes and dreamed.

She was a normal girl, getting ready to go out with her friends to a normal party. Her grandfather was not Death, she was not being stalked by a sociopathic poltergeist and the one man she really had a chance with was not the anthropomorphic personification of Time.

There was a loud crash from the living room.

She opened her eyes. She picked up the poker. She prepared to unleash hell.

"Susan!" Lobsang croaked as she walked into the room. Teatime was holding his knife to the other man's neck. Although Lobsang was a good few inches taller, the assassin had some kind of supernatural strength that defied his thin-set build.

"He was in the kitchen. Its not polite to break into people's houses, sir."

"He's the anthropomorphic personification of Time, Teatime, not a thief. Let him go." Susan dropped the poker, smiling despite herself at the sight of Lobsang.

The blond assassin stepped back with what looked like genuine contrition, "Very sorry, sir. I was not aware that you and Susan were acquaintances. My name is Jonathan Teatime, what's yours?"

"Lobsang Ludd." he muttered, rubbing his neck. Then he looked at Susan and smiled, and something unfamiliar in her stomach went all squiffy.

"How long can you stay?"

"About five minutes," he caught the look of disappointment on her face, "I'm sorry…"

"Its okay. We have to go out tonight anyway."

"We?" Lobsang shot a look at Teatime, who seemed to be wholly preoccupied with watching the light glance off his knife, "Who is he to you?"

"Long story. An enemy that thought it would be fun to come back as a poltergeist. His life source is my irritation, so he can't kill me, at least."

"Charming." he eyed the young man warily.

"I'm trying to get rid of him."

"I bet you are." Lobsang chuckled, then turned back to her, stepping a little closer, "So, where are you two going tonight?"

"Midwinter Gala at the Patrician's palace, representing Sto-Helit." she pulled a face. "It's going to be ghastly."

"I can't say I'm jealous."

"You could, to make me feel better."

He moved closer, "Alright. I am very jealous that Mister Teatime is escorting you to the Midwinter Gala tonight, Susan, and that I cannot."

"Good enough." said Susan, and smiled.

Another perfect moment…

"Tee-ah-tim-eh, Mr Ludd."

…Ruined.

Susan scowled, "Bugger off, _Tea_ time."


	5. Chapter 5

The ballroom looked fantastic. He'd already tried some of the food from the buffet, and it was sublime. There was nothing short of half an orchestra playing delightful jazz in the background. And there was a small crowd of beautiful, confident and self-assured women chatting amicably by the drinks table.

The crowd was, in fact, three women, who, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on the situation, were married to the three men that had been forced into a group themselves and were making very awkward small talk in a different corner.

Vimes was one of the three men. He took a drag from his cigar to avoid making eye-contact with William De Worde, and turned away briefly as he exhaled to make sure Moist von Lipwig didn't try and talk to him.

There was a silence so awkward that Vimes found himself actually wishing death or destruction would occur so he would have an excuse to rush off. Well, destruction, rather than death, but usually, sadly, you couldn't have one without the other.

"Good evening, Commander Vimes, Mr Lipwig, Mr De Worde."

All three men jumped like they'd just been caught joining a particularly embarrassing cult - even De Worde, who'd been facing the direction that the Patrician had just appeared from (what was the point of having top-class assassin training if you couldn't utilize your stealth skills for your own amusement every now and then?).

"Good evening, my Lord! You're…uh…here very early…" Mr Lipwig's bright, even frantic, smile hastened to include everyone in the conversation, but neither of the other two men particularly wanted to contribute. Vetinari took pity on him.

"Indeed, Mr Lipwig, but the gala is, in fact, being held - if you'll excuse my Quirmian - _a chez moi_."

"Of course, sir."

The awkward silence resumed. Vetinari actually appeared to be enjoying it, the bastard.

"Ah! More guests are arriving!" the look of absolute relief on Lipwig's face was unmistakable, "If you'll excuse me, Mr De Worde, Commander, my Lord."

As he hurried off to do his hostly duties, the message was clear: _every man for himself, boys, cheerio!_

And that was the thing about Moist von Lipwig, Vimes thought; on the surface, he was all friendliness and charm and patience, but underneath, his brain worked faster than the average man's did on two gallons of splot.

It was rather worrying, but not something that he was going to dwell on at this moment, because he didn't want to be left with Vetinari, so he needed to come up with an excuse quicker than-

"Otto! Otto what are you - I'm sorry, Commander, my Lord, I have to - _Otto_!"

Vimes swore under his breath as William De Worde made his escape. _Every man for himself_.

"Villiam? But I am just doink vot you-"

" _Shut up, Otto_."

There were a few moments of intense whispering between the vampire iconographer and the editor, then they both scurried off.

"Ah, Commander, I would love to stay and make small talk, but Lady Margolotta has just arrived and she is a very good friend of mine. If you will excuse me…"

Vimes blinked in surprise as the Patrician glided off into the steadily growing crowds. He took a sip of his drink, shuffled around a little awkwardly, then decided that he was going to have to go and find Sybil and trail her around until Carrot arrived.

-x-x-x-

"Ah, Havelock," the stately vampiress smiled brightly as the Patrician took her hand and led her into the hall, "How vunderful to see you again. And not for business, zis time! You should organize more balls."

"You too, Margolotta, but it was not I who invited you to this gala, if you remember."

"Of course." she smirked at him, "You've never been vun to disappoint public opinion."

Vetinari's expression didn't change, "I'm sure I have no idea what you mean."

"Don't vorry, Havelock," she lowered her voice in a mock-conspiratorial tone and squeezed his arm, "I am never vun to listen to rumours zat I know myself not to be true."

She watched his face intently and the only movement was a minute twitch of the mouth that could have been the beginnings of a suppressed smile. She took that as a victory, but moved on, "Vhere is zis hospitable Mister Lipvig zhat invited me, zhen?"

"My Lady," she turned to see the young man in question at her elbow with a dazzling smile and a dark-haired young woman on his arm. Or rather, she seemed to be allowing him to hold out his arm underneath her hand. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. This is my wife, Adora."

"Hello, my dear. Oh, you vork viz zer clay men, zer golems, do you not? I believe your delightful assistant - vhat is her name, Miss Smint? - spent much time in Ubervald a few months back. I vas surprised zat you did not come yourself, vhat viz your husband beink from Lipvig."

The young woman's smile appeared to be genuine, although contradicting bolts of irritation and curiosity laced her gaze, "Yes. And I would have accompanied Miss Smint, had I not been pregnant. My husband was adamant that I didn't travel, for my own safety." she rolled her eyes at him and he raised his eyebrows back, before turning back to his guests.

"You see, my Lady, I grew up in Uberwald - so I know all the dangers very well." The young woman frowned at her husband and he sighed. This appeared to have been a well-argued point.

Lady Margolotta laughed, "Afraid zer verevolves might carry off your lovely lady, Mister Lipvig?"

"I was more concerned about the locals, actually." he said with a charming grin. The vampiress laughed again and the Patrician offered a smile.

"Very witty, Mr Lipwig. But I do believe Lord Downey has arrived…"

"Of course. My Lord, Lady Margolotta."

Margolotta watched the young couple move on to the next set of guests with mild curiosity.

"Vhat an interesting new pet you have, Havelock, and his vife is…intriguing. He must not be as stupid as he pretends, as you have him runnink most of the businesses in your city, and he didn't make any silly comments about vampires."

"Mr Lipwig is very good at keeping his true nature under wraps, but the city has high hopes for him. And, the dignitaries are no longer listening. You can tone down your accent, madam."

Margolotta opened her mouth to make a comment about what he thought of her accent thirty years back, but changed her mind, "Very well. The city? Not you? Ah, because he was a criminal?"

Vetinari coughed meaningfully, "Albert Spangler was a criminal, and Albert Spangler was hanged."

"Very good, Havelock, you got the chance to pull your favourite trick - the guardian angel. And nobody got hurt." she frowned at him, "Isn't the point of being a tyrant that people are scared of you? He was sentenced to hang for a reason."

"I assure you, madam, that the only people that need be scared of me are those who haven't learnt the words."

"Aha, now you sound tyrannical."

They paused to survey the rest of the guests who were beginning to pair off in time with the music. Lady Margolotta turned to the Patrician, and smiled the smile of a woman who had chosen to stop being the ultimate object of sexual attraction because it was inconvenient, but knew that she could resume the position at any time she wished.

"Dance viz me, Havelock, because you used to dance so vell. And zen, perhaps, ve can retire and finally have a real game of Thud, vissout zose silly clacks interruptions?"

Vetinari appeared to be amused; Margolotta wasn't sure, and she knew him better than most on the Disc. He'd always been difficult to read, even when he was nineteen and intriguingly and infuriatingly impudent, and although she'd got much better at pretending to be nice - 'b-vord' and all that, yes, it had been his idea - she still, after centuries of practise, couldn't pokerface to his standard.

"You are mistaken, Margolotta, if you think that your accent will influence me."

"Of course it von't, Havelock," said the vampiress, whose dress that night was burgundy and tastefully cut, with gothic lace trim, no hint of pink and the only bat to be seen was a small silver fastening on her neckline, "But actink like a middle-aged politician is so very borink, and vhy should I conceal my true nature to you, who knows it best? Dance viz me, please - or with me, if you would rather."

The Patrician took her hand and inclined his head, "Madam."

-x-x-x-

"People watching?"

Adora Belle glanced up as her husband approached, leaning on the balustrade beside her, "Couple watching, really. That couple," she indicated the particular pair amongst the crowded dancefloor, "That's Duchess Susan, isn't it?"

Moist nodded. It was rather difficult to mistake those swirling white tresses.

"What do you make of her escort?"

He squinted at the young man in question, "Well, he's either an assassin or a vampire; they're the only two kinds of people who can get away with that much black, and he's incredibly elegant in his movements. I'm leaning towards assassin, though, because I've never seen a vampire pull off blond curls."

"I thought assassin, too." she smirked, "Only an assassin would have the style to try and kill their target whilst dancing with her."

"He's trying to kill her?"

"Yes, and she's fighting back - if you watch- there! She just stomped on his foot."

"Maybe she's just a bad dancer."

"She's a duchess, Moist, she will have been dancing like this since she was five. And she drove the heel of her shoe right into the middle of his foot with force. You can't do that by accident, and I would know."

They stood in silence and watched the artfully twirling couple's efforts to injure each other. Moist's eyes widened in surprise as he caught a flash of metal pressed into the woman's side -

"Gods! He's got his knife on her!"

\- And then she brought up her knee sharply, he staggered for a moment, then righted himself, and on the next turn the knife was gone and the blond assassin was limping a little. Moist winced. Adora chuckled.

"He's not trying to kill her, though," he added, as an afterthought. His wife raised her eyebrows at him, and he continued, "He's decked out in full 'assassin's black' regalia, he's a licensed assassin from the Guild; if he was trying to kill her, she'd already be dead."

"Interesting." she pursed her lips, "I wonder why she brought him as her escort if she hates him so much?"

"Perhaps they're together, and they had an argument?"

"I don't think many men would hold a knife to their girlfriend's ribs over a simple misunderstanding, especially not at a public event. And assassins have a very strict honour code."

"Maybe," said Moist after a few moments' silent consideration, "They're just…into that sort of thing…?"

"Kinky." said Adora Belle, and laughed.


	6. Chapter 6

As a rule, Angua _really_ didn't like dresses. They were faff and hassle and impracticality, all of which were areas that she didn't like to deal in. Plus, it was difficult to find anything that she actually _liked_ \- she just wasn't a dressy sort of girl.

That was why, when Carrot had mentioned the ball to her (she'd never asked why he'd been invited to a gala meant for the nobles of the Disc; perhaps Mr Lipwig felt sorry for the Commander, or, more likely, he was just good at putting two and two together but telling everyone the answer was three), she'd asked Sally for help. Unfortunately, asking Sally meant that she would very definitely be going along on the shopping trip herself, because she didn't really want to wear something that a _vampire_ thought was sexy. Lines had to be drawn.

Miraculously, she'd found the Perfect Dress in relatively short time, without the comic conventions of female shopping that involved trying every single dress in every single shop on and the enthusiastic companion suggesting the least appropriate outfits for the reluctant protagonist.

It was a dusty kind of green with a darker sash around the waist and tasteful thin gold trim, a little too tight and a little too low-cut for her liking but, she had to admit, the ridiculous heels and barely being able to breathe in the stupid corset-type thing Sally had forced her into were all worth it for the look on Carrot's face.

Oh, she'd caught him gawping at her before. He'd told her that she was beautiful before. But nothing compared to the way she'd felt when, after running out of the room, corset half-laced under her dress and make-up half done, snarling in fury at Sally who'd made just one too many snarky remarks on a day that was just one day too close to that time of the month, he'd caught her gently by the arms, kissed her on the forehead and told her she was stunning. Not looked stunning, not would look stunning when she was done. She was stunning.

She felt a little silly for being so affected by it. She was a grown woman, for goodness sake. She was the toughest member of the City Watch, after Commander Vimes and possibly A. E. Pessimal. She was cynical and often wished she was less worldly-wise, if it afforded the kind of optimism Carrot enjoyed.

But it did feel nice to know that she was loved.

"It's your shy and retiring inner-romantic coming out," said Adora over the top of her drink with a smirk.

"Oh, stop it, Adora," Sacharissa beamed at her, "You're perfectly entitled to it. And its very sweet."

"I don't want to be sweet. I'm not a sweet person."

Their newest recruit, just-Susan ("If you even think about calling me Duchess or my Lady, I _will_ hurt you!") laughed, then smiled, a little sadly, and took another sip of her drink. A big sip.

"Calm down, Susan, we're not in the Mended Drum." Angua grinned at her, then sighed, "Although, I wish we were."

"Seconded. Although, I prefer Biers." She scowled, "At least, if I were in Beirs, it would be socially acceptable to kick out my resident psychopath."

The four women all turned and looked at the blond assassin in question, who, ever since Adora had approached Susan, had been hovering awkwardly in the background, looking thoroughly miserable.

"You were the one that said I couldn't inhume people." He grumbled. One did not take poker threats from Susan Sto-Helit lightly. Especially when it was impossible to avoid her for the rest of eternity.

"Can't you go and, you know, talk to people? There must be someone here that you know."

Teatime stuck out his bottom lip. "But that's so _boring_ , Susan. This gala is boring."

Susan ground her teeth and squeezed her glass dangerously tight, "You were the one that offered to come!"

"I didn't realise that you wouldn't let me inhume anyone. You're not playing _fair_ , Susan!"

"Letting you _kill_ people is not the same as being my escort to a gala!"

"What if it was someone that you hate - what if it was one of those nasty ladies with the ratty hus-"

"Teatime."

Adora's clipped, precise pronunciation of his name caught his attention. "You got it right."

"I hate my name. I'm not a hypocrite. Do you like books?"

"Very much, madam."

"I believe his Lordship has a very extensive library on the second floor. I'm sure he would not mind if you entertained yourself with it."

The young man considered for a moment, then looked around at them, suspiciously. "If you're sure Lord Vetinari would not mind..." He glanced at Susan. She rolled her eyes.

"Teatime, I've been trying to get rid of you ever since you turned up. You don't need my permission to go!"

The assassin nodded to each of them, "Good evening, ladies." and left.

Angua watched him until she was certain that he was out of earshot, "I'm guessing you would like to leave now, my Lady?" she asked teasingly.

"You read my mind, Captain."

-x-x-x-

"And what is your age, sir, if you don't mind me asking?"

"37."

William De Worde eyed the almost-certainly-more-than-37-year-old suspiciously, before scribbling it on the back of his hand. Notebooks-closed or not, Mr Smartass Lipwig, he was still going to get his gala report and interviews.

"Thank you very much, sir." He smiled briefly at the man, before turning away and scanning the crowds. Where was Sacharissa? He couldn't see her anywhere…

Ten minutes later, when he'd circled the ballroom twice, he was considerably more concerned. Yes, she was a grown woman and could probably look after herself, but it wasn't like her to wander off without at least politely letting him know.

Then again, he thought moodily, she'd spent most of the evening with Mrs Lipwig, Captain Angua and, by the looks of things, Duchess Susan. He had nothing wrong with powerful women, and everyone was allowed to have their own opinions, but he didn't really appreciate them telling his wife that it was her Feminine Right to disappear unannounced without a trace, and telling him first would mean that he had her under his control. Or something. It was impolite, above anything else.

Although, he pondered, most of the important male members of Ankh-Morpork had a significant other that came under the category of Powerful Women; Moist von Lipwig with his delightful wife, Commander Vimes with Lady Sybil. Even Vetinari had a Powerful Woman - Lady Margolotta, one of his first patrons, by the looks of it. He'd heard rumours that they'd had a liaison about thirty years ago (or, when cited from The Man In The Pub, "I 'eard 'e buggered 'er for a few months 'til 'e 'ad to go 'ome again"), but the only evidence he'd seen before now was their regular over-the-Clacks games of Thud.

This evening though…he was torn between his own personal safety and the irresistibility of the story; he'd bumped into his Lordship and the Lady as they were heading towards a discreet door that undoubtedly led to the more homely rooms of the Palace.

"Oh - Lady Margolotta!" he'd held out his hand and smiled, "William De Worde."

"Ah, of course! Mr De Vorde. How vunderful to finally meet you."

"My Lord. I send the week's editions of the _Times_ over to Lady Margolotta every Octeday." he added, by way of explanation. _But of course, you already knew that, didn't you?_ Then he saw an opportunity too good to miss, "Could you possibly tell me your thoughts on the gala tonight, your Lordship, milady?"

"I thought Mr Lipwig specifically stipulated that it was a notebooks-closed event, Mr De Worde?" said Vetinari, who was, apparently, amused.

 _Damn._ "My Lady?" he asked hopefully.

"It is a wonderful chance for the political figures of the Disc to get to know each uzzer a little better."

"Vunderful," William corrected, absently, under his breath, because he was an editor. Then he realised who he was speaking to, and grimaced, "I'm sorry, Lady Margolotta, I didn't mean to-"

"Of course." said Margolotta, giving him a kind of strained smile, with no teeth, "Havelock prefers me to speak without the accent, and sometimes I get a little mixed up. Old habits die hard, I believe is the phrase."

He'd excused himself quickly, but not before he'd noticed with a reporter's skill for gossip that the Patrician and his companion had disappeared through the door together.

LORD VETINARI'S SECRET UBERWALDIAN VAMPIRE LOVER? Oh, he could see the headline already, with Otto's picture of them outside the palace neatly on the right…of course, his life wouldn't be worth living afterwards, and there wasn't nearly enough evidence for it, but what a story! He would have to speak to Sacharissa about-

-Sacharissa, who he couldn't find. Right. Who were the ladies she normally associated with…? He marched over to Lady Sybil and tentatively tapped her on the shoulder. "Lady Sybil?" She turned and gave him a smile.

"Yes, Mr De Worde?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt but - I was wondering if you know where my wife might be?"

She paused, then shook her head, "I'm afraid I don't, I haven't seen her for at least an hour. She's probably with Mrs Lipwig, or Captain Angua."

"Thank you."

Well, he couldn't see Lipwig's wife…but he could see Mr Lipwig himself; he was hard to miss, as, in his incredibly black suit, he looked like a hole in a piece of multi-coloured canvas. He hurried over.

"Mr Lipwig."

The man glanced at him and offered him his trademark smiles - this one was Polite But Apologetic, "Sorry, Mr De Worde, can you give me a second?" he turned back to a man that William assumed was his butler, "Yes, Wooster?"

"Mrs Lipwig asked me to inform you that she and her companions, Miss Cripslock, Captain Angua, Miss Smint and the Duchess of Sto-Helit, have retired from the gala."

"Retired from the gala?" William repeated, incredulous.

"Gods." said Lipwig, looking pale, "I - uh - don't suppose she told you where?"

"She did not, sir. But she did ask that I wait forty-five minutes before delivering the message, sir, as she did not want you to come after her."

"Oh gods, this is bad!"

"Why? They've probably just-"

Lipwig interrupted him, "You don't get it, do you? They didn't want us to come straight after them. That means that they've gone to a bar! A _bar_! Two Golem Rights activists, a reporter, a we- a Captain of the Watch and a Duchess! It sounds like some sort of awful joke! Its just a recipe for disaster - and they've already been there for over half an hour!"

"I think you're blowing this out of proportion." said William, swallowing nervously despite himself, because he got the feeling Mr Lipwig knew a lot more about they way women thought than he did.

"Come on, De Worde," Lipwig rubbed his hands together grimly, "Help me find Captain Carrot and that funny-looking assassin that escorted Duchess Susan. And then, heaven help us, we're going to go and rescue the city from our women."

"Shouldn't it be the other way around?" William asked dryly.

"Not in this situation."


	7. Chapter 7

Jonathan Teatime enjoyed books very much; the Betterment of One's Mind was emphasized as a very good thing at the Guild, but it did rather take a backseat to becoming jolly good at sneaking around. As a result of this, and his ridiculously fast reading skills, Teatime had gotten through the whole Guild library in a matter of weeks, and since the only books Susan owned were detective stories and the occasional well-hidden romance novel, it had been while since he'd devoured a really good book.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

The Patrician's library had been relatively easy to find, although, when he had bumped into an elderly man carrying some sort of clockwork contraption, he did take the opportunity to politely enquire if he was headed in the right direction. He was, and he discovered the room only moments later.

He'd expected it to be a lot larger, if he was honest, but he couldn't deny that it carried as much style as he'd anticipated; dark oak bookcases that lined every wall, stacked full of very Patrician-y type books on politics and history, as well as several very extensive cartographic cases. And then, on shelves that were not necessarily hidden, just carefully placed where the average literary explorer did not tend to look, like on the top shelf, close to the ceiling, right in the corner, the treasure trove lay; several volumes of pure, certifiably insane genius by Leonard of Quirm, research texts on the Roundworld and, the only book in the entire room that looked genuinely used, a little tattered through frequent use, was a copy of _History of Uberwald_. As boundless as his boyish curiosity was, he knew it was impolite to pry, so he placed the book neatly back on the shelf and carried on browsing.

He wasn't sure how long he was in the room for, as he'd got quite attached to _The Art of Disembowelling and other Delightful Party Tricks to Show Your Friends_ , but what he was sure of was a sudden, stabbing pain in his head. He'd never passed out before, but he instinctively knew that this was imminent. After a few seconds, the darkness cleared from the corners of his vision, and he decided that it was about time he returned to his job (irritating Susan, that was, not assassinating, although he was dying for another contract, no pune intended).

Teatime generally had very good spatial awareness; indeed, he couldn't recall the last time he'd gotten lost. Somehow, however, he managed to take a different route back to the ballroom, probably as a result of his pain-induced wooziness, and found himself in a plain white chamber. The room was empty, with few windows, and the only furniture comprised of a small table with a Thud set and two chairs. In the brief glance that he gave it before leaving, he noted that the Dwarves appeared to be winning and that the two chairs were pushed out roughly, away from the table, not tucked in, much to his Assassin-innate irritation.

The fourth door Teatime tried was, thankfully, the right one, since he had a blinder of a headache coming on, and being in pain put in him in a bad mood, despite his best efforts to always be polite.

-x-x-x-

Moist von Lipwig did not understand why no one else appreciated the gravity of the situation; he'd taken Captain Carrot aside and explained what was going on, told him that the Armageddon had arrived, and the red-haired watchman had agreed with that eejit editor that he was Probably Making A Mountain Out Of A Molehill.

And so Moist went to great lengths to explain the theory of narrative causality, the nature of comic conventions in regard to bars and general drunkenness and the uproarious political scandal generated when one with power steps down amongst the people and makes a fool of oneself, which, no matter how funny, is never a good idea, is it?

This took him roughly ten minutes. When he finally stopped to draw breath, he realised that a small crowd had gathered around him, with De Worde and Captain Carrot at the front, who were still not convinced.

He decided on Plan B.

"Look - my wife, her assistant, Mr De Worde's wife, Duchess Susan and your…Captain Angua, have left, quite possibly, for the Mended Drum. All dressed in ball gowns. Do you really want five relatively unarmed, distinctly inebriated women, dressed for a gala, wandering home on their own - or hanging around with the people in The Drum?"

Despite the fact that Moist knew Captain Angua, if she was still conscious, would be able to maul anything vaguely threatening that came their way, and that was only if his wife hadn't attacked it with her stiletto heels first, this convinced De Worde and Carrot easily.

The crowd dispersed. Moist looked at the time, and his brain flailed, "Alright, let's find Duchess Susan's assassin escort and Miss Smint's fiancé, and quick; they've probably already started on the karaoke or, gods help us, the table danc-"

He was interrupted by a sharp "urk!" that came from De Worde's direction. Moist spun and saw an assassin with asymmetric eyes and blond curls grinning brightly from behind the editor as he held a knife to his throat.

"Good evening, gentlemen. I believe you know the whereabouts of Miss Susan?" he chirped.

Moist glanced at Carrot, who was tensed and ready to haul the young man in black away from De Worde at a moment's notice, but didn't act, knowing that this required more delicacy.

"Put the knife away, Mr…Tee-ah-tim-eh, is it? Then we can see about finding Mr Herrington, and then you can come with us to try and find the ladies."

Teatime obliged, appearing at the Postmaster's side with uncanny swiftness. "You got my name right, Mr Lipwig. I like people who are polite and get my name right. May I possibly request that we leave as quickly as possible? Spending too long without Miss Susan's company makes me feel unwell, and that is not just a fanciful romantic declaration, I assure you."

"Err," said Moist, leaning backwards in an effort regain some semblance of personal space, "Of course. Let's just grab Mr Herrington, then we can see about…leaving…"

Mr Lucas Herrington was, thankfully, rather easy to locate, because he was the only person in the room that had an accent that sounded like he belonged out tackling the difficult cabbages of plains of an obscure town in Uberwald. He was, however, surprisingly eloquent and well-versed in both literature and politics, which had drawn around him a small group of intrigued nobles. He worked as a tailor in a shop near Dolly Sisters, where he met his 'swee'-'eart', Jovial Smint. Spending a lot of time in the company of both of them was…an experience.

"Ah, Mistuh Lip-wig, what cannuh do fer ya?"

Moist smiled broadly back at the man, "Well, Mr Herrington, we were just off to find where exactly our wonderfully…liberal-minded significant others have disappeared to, and we thought-"

"Oh, yeah, Jovie did say that they were headin' out. Biers, she said."

"Biers?" William De Worde hissed, "Why would they go to an Undead Bar?"

Captain Carrot kept an impossibly straight face, and said, "Angua did mention that they served very creative cocktails."

"They could have raided into the palace kitchens if they wanted creative cocktails, they didn't have to go to Biers!"

"Perhaps they like the atmosphere," Moist commented dryly, before turning back to Mr Herrington, "Look, we're going to get them - or, at least, stay a safe distance away and make sure they don't come to any harm. I can keep an eye on Miss Smint, if you want, or-"

"Oh no, Mistuh Lip-wig, I'll come along, don't yer worry."

"Oh…great, good." for a split second, Moist had no idea what to do. Then he regained his senses, "Right, well, uhm, Biers ahoy? Let's go."

The party moved, and was making very successful progress towards the door, until Commander Vimes stepped in their path, frowning.

"Carrot? Where are you lot off to, then?"

Moist beamed. Oh, this was beyond perfect.

"Commander Vimes! Brilliant, just the man I wanted to see." he clapped the watchman on the shoulder brightly, "You couldn't hold down the fort whilst we pop off for a bit, could you? Lady troubles, and all that. Jolly good chap, we'll be back soon!"

And before Vimes could respond, he ushered Carrot, Herrington, De Worde and Teatime through the door and into a cab.

-x-x-x-

Giggling was not a common pastime for Susan Sto-Helit. Then again, she'd never been to Biers with any other women before, and certainly not in a ball gown. Through the haze of three - or probably four - Screaming Orgasms and some Bearhugger's, she realised emphatically that there was _nothing better_ than a girls' night out. And that all men were _total bastards_ , even the nice ones, and especially the _damn assassins_. And that she could suddenly think in _italics_.

She announced, loudly, to her new friends, this fantastic ability, and they all agreed that it was a wondrous thing, and all giggled.

All except Sacharissa, who was being a total spoilsport and wouldn't drink anything at all.

"Oh go on, Rissa. Here, you can try some of mine." said Adora, proffering her glass, and who, despite having had the same amount as everyone else, appeared to be the most sober. But then, appearances could be dece- desep- well, appearances could be _wrong_.

"No thanks, Adora, I really don't want - look, can you keep a secret?"

"You're the bloody journalist." Angua pointed out, raising an unsteady finger in Sacharissa's direction. Jovial giggled loudly.

"I guess I'll take that as a yes…" she looked around uncertainly.

"Spit it out, woman."

"Okay, well-" she cut herself off with a hand over her mouth, then mumbled behind it, "Gods! I think I'm going to be sick!"

As a member of the Watch, Susan knew that Captain Angua was used to leaping into action at a moment's notice, sometimes literally. She wasn't, however, used to leaping into action at a moment's notice off a barstool, wearing heels and a ball gown, after half a dozen drinks. As a result, her agility deserted her and she landed flat on her face.

Amongst the waves of laughter, Adora and Jovial managed to struggle to their feet and, thankfully, escort Sacharissa outside.

"Why," said Susan, after recovering from her hysterics at watching Angua attempt to reclaim her stool, "Why- what I don't understand is, why is Sacharissa being sick, when she hasn't drunk a single thing?"

"Maybe she's ill." Angua suggested, then gave the patch of pink stickiness on the bar that was the remains of her drink a long look, "Susan…am I drunk enough to get away with licking that?"

"No." said Susan firmly, as if to a dog. Angua looked far too disappointed. Then she glanced over her shoulder and beamed brightly as the three other women returned. The smile drooped somewhat as, half way across the room, Sacharissa suddenly turned, hand over mouth, and bolted out again.

"It went everywhere," Adora wrinkled her nose, and nothing more needed to be said.

Jovial studied her new companions with a thoughtful air, picking up her drink and swirling it around in the glass, "You know, someone should definitely be singing."

"Singing?"

"Yes. Loudly, and out of tune. Or maybe dancing on the bar there. I'm good at dancing." her face lit up, "I know! I'll go first!"

So, with a roar of approval from the rest of the bar, the Golem Rights Activists, the Duchess of Sto-Helit and the we- Captain of the Watch took to the stage. Or, at least, what they imagined was a stage.


	8. Chapter 8

Awkward silences were not things that Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson was accustomed to; he was very good at making friendly conversation and had a good memory for names, which meant that he could get through most social occasions unscathed.

Moist von Lipwig had lived through his fair share, but had learnt just the right tone of voice to avert them or, at least, turn them into inane small talk. He couldn't decide if he hated them with a passion or found them highly entertaining. It usually depended whether or not the awkwardness was resting on _him_.

William De Worde hadn't had to deal with too many in his time, since he'd quickly learnt how to politely detour Mr Wintler away from the iconograph, and on the off chance that someone else said something awkward, he usually had his notebook to hide behind.

Jonathan Teatime was aware that awkward situations existed, but for him, they were things that happened to other people. There was always another darkened rainbow of a thought corkscrewing through his mind to keep him busy when company stopped talking or conversation got boring.

Mr Lucas Herrington was the sort of man that had to have awkward situations pointed out to him, then highlighted in yellow, then ringed several times in red pen, and was often the one that blithely made them awkward in the first place. But everyone was sure that his heart was in the right place.

Unfortunately for all five men, Captain Carrot had already asked after how everyone had found the evening, and after Mr Herrington's name and employment, Moist had already commented vaguely on the weather and the impressive palace ballroom, William didn't have his notebook, Teatime was gazing out of the window and Herrington was still quite at ease.

It was a sad situation that five fully grown men couldn't find more than two minutes of conversation, but, then again, Lord Vetinari was very good at keeping himself in power.

-x-x-x-

At this point, Drumknott was very glad that he, in his master's words, had a 'cultivated lack of imagination'. Imagination when discovering one of the young Venturi Lords in a cupboard with two of Lord Selachii's parlour maids was certainly not a good thing; Fact said, I say, Marcus Venturi is creasing the linen, and one of the ladies appears to have misplaced her corset, and left you at that. Imagination was not a good thing to have, as it tended to go one step further, hand in hand with Assumption.

Men more inclined to imagination may have reacted differently to Commander Vimes'…well, command to "go and find Vetinari because the guests are leaving and Lipwig isn't back yet" when they realised, unlike the any of the of other the guests, that the Patrician was not, in fact, in the ballroom. And neither was Lady Margolotta.

Assistants with a more developed sense of imagination may have simply returned to Commander Vimes and excused their master for a headache or some such ailment. Drumknott, in school, when creative writing took its turn on the curriculum, had all the punctuation perfectly placed, but the story bored the poor teacher to tears.

This was why, with next to no trepidation or hesitation, he set off briskly for the Patrician's office. He did not find Vetinari or Lady Margolotta there, but did discover Lord Venturi and his two lady friends in a nearby linen closet. His next visit was to the Thud Room, where he knocked politely and entered.

"My Lord, Commander Vimes wishes to speak to you on an urgent matter."

"Of course, Drumknott. Please inform him that I will be there momentarily."

"Yes, my Lord." Drumknott bowed, and left.

The trolls appeared to be winning.

-x-x-x-

There was a reason why Samuel Vimes hated galas and parties and political meetings; he hated occasions where it was not socially acceptable to punch, kick and generally be violent towards a wall, or the person you were talking to.

'Hold the fort', Lipwig had said. He wished it was as military as the term suggested.

It had been fine for a while, until people had noticed the hour and decided that it was about time they left, really, you know the traffic this time of night…and then they'd looked around for someone to apologise to and, for lack of other hostly figures, they'd found him. He'd lost count of how many people he'd had to pretend to smile at, how many hands he'd shaken and cheeks kissed and pleasantries expressed. He was tempted to call upon the Watchman's old ability to sleep whilst standing, but dared not risk the soul-destroying Disappointed Look from Sybil.

Lipwig, Carrot, De Worde, the suspicious-looking assassin (when were assassins not suspicious? Their entire existence oozed suspicion because they murdered people for a living, _and got away with it!_ ) and the tailor that sounded like a farmer had been gone for over half an hour, and he knew that because he was looking at the grand clock on the wall every ten seconds.

"Commander Vimes," Orion Venturi extended a hand, which Vimes shook reluctantly, then grabbed his rather ruffled-looking son by the collar and hauled him away. Lady Venturi, who was busy kissing Sybil's cheeks and simultaneously arranging an afternoon to come around for tea, finally broke away and joined her husband in berating their son.

Vimes tried to imagine himself in Lord Venturi's shoes, then quickly banished the idea because it did not bear thinking about.

"Commander Vimes!"

Vimes grimaced and prepared himself for another bought of hand-shaking, before he realised that the voice had not come from inside the ballroom, but outside, somewhere in the vicinity of the coaches.

It was Carrot!…And only Carrot. Confusion creased his brow.

"Carrot. Where are-"

"I don't think this is the best place to discuss it, sir."

Vimes looked around, and couldn't recall a time when he was more pleased to see Vetinari.

"Ah, just in time, my Lord," he tapped the Patrician lightly on the arm, "Tag. You're it."

Without looking to see Vetinari's reaction, Vimes pulled Carrot into a sparsely populated corner.

"Where's Angua?"

"I think it would be best if I explained it from the beginning, sir."

"Go on, then."

And he did.

"…Singing?"

"Yes, sir."

"Standing on the bar. In a ball gown."

"Yes sir. She had, thankfully, removed her shoes, or she may have turned an ankle from the dancing."

Vimes swallowed. This was surreal. "…What exactly were they singing?"

"The Hedgehog Song, I believe, sir, the one that goes-"

"Yes, Carrot, I know how it goes."

"-And Vetinari Has No Balls At All, too, or at least several verses of it."

Vimes ran his hands down his face in the manner of one that has just discovered that the pros for suicide far outweigh the cons. "I hate to say it, but at least Lipwig had the good sense to suggest going and finding them before anything worse happened. And then what? Where are they now?"

"Well, sir, Duchess Susan lives quite near Biers, so Mr Teatime took her back home on foot. There wasn't enough room for us all in the coach, and Miss Cripslock was feeling quite under the weather, so Mr De Worde took the coach back home with her, and we waited for the next cab."

"So where is Mr Lipwig now, then?" Vimes squinted into the darkness outside over Carrot's shoulder, looking for the black-suited Postmaster.

"It was originally his intention to return, sir, as his wife appeared to be none the worse, but his assumption was wrong, as a few minutes later she suddenly became very…familiar, and started undoing his…shirt buttons," Carrot coughed, red-faced, "Mr Lipwig thought it would be best if he took her home."

"Hmm!"

"Angua and Miss Smint both fell asleep on the return journey, sir, and Mr Herrington is waiting with them now in the coach. I would rather like to take Angua back, sir, if you don't mind…"

Vimes rubbed his eyes wearily and waved a hand, "Of course, Carrot. She can have the morning off, too, but she'll have to swap to tomorrow's night shift with the new recruits."

"Thank you, sir. Good night, sir."

Vimes watched the retreating broad back of Carrot as he made his way back outside and sighed; at least if the reporter woman had been involved in the little escapade she was less likely to give it a scandalous write-up. The tremendous headache she would be suffering the next day was enough punishment, so he wouldn't mention it to Angua.

Also, having the combination of an embarrassed werewolf who felt like four porcupines were playing foot-the-ball inside her skull, very close to full moon, and Sergeant Detritus - well, it was safe to say that none of the new recruits would retain their impudence for long.


	9. Chapter 9

William took a long sip of his coffee, then lifted the draft of the morning's edition for inspection. He was, by nature, not an evening person - he was very definitely one of the early-to-bed-early-to-rise types which, for his work, was a very good thing. Every morning he would get up early to read over the day's paper, correcting grammar and spelling and re-arranging everything so it fit nicely, and was usually finished by the time the dwarves arrived to start printing. Also, the early morning tended to be the time when people discovered the dramatic events that had taken place during the night, and so having someone handy with a notebook around sunrise was always a good idea.

Sacharissa, however, was an evening person, which was fortunate, because it meant that she was quite happy to stay up, working on an article and let him go to bed, provided that he would get up early and finish it. It also meant that she was usually the _Times'_ representative at social functions, something that he most definitely was not complaining about.

It also meant that she normally slept in. William took another sip of his coffee and glanced at the clock over the top of the newspaper; quarter past five. He counted the seconds under his breath.

"Four…three…two…one…"

His wife staggered through the door, blonde corkscrew hair escaping from its bun, looking thoroughly wretched. After seeing this event take place every morning over the course of the week, however, he'd learnt to keep that observation to himself.

One side-effect of her pregnancy (the word still made his stomach lurch strangely) was the amazingly punctual morning sickness. They had, at first, just assumed that she was a bit ill, but after over a week of being woken up shortly after five o'clock every morning to rush to the sink, it was evident that it was more than just a winter tummy bug.

On the plus side, it meant that she was up in time to help him with the editing!

And he'd stopped mentioning that one pretty quickly too. Who knew that recently woken nauseous pregnant women were so grumpy and had such good aim? Well, he did, after, for the second time in his life, he wound up with a letter-shaped bruise on his forehead.

"Morning, dear." he ventured cautiously. She offered him something half way between a smile and a grimace.

"How…?"

"Bad." she responded, pulling up a chair and slumping in it.

"You didn't know what I was going to ask."

She gave him a look that told him she was utilising all of her considerable patience at this moment, "William, when you have been vomiting for ten minutes, everything is bad."

"Is coffee bad?" he held out the mug to her as a peace offering. The look on her face as she took it eagerly was well worth losing his drink.

"Thank you," she smiled at him over the rim after taking several gulps.

A little more relaxed as his wife appeared to be reverting back to her generally good-natured self, William smiled back. Then he chuckled, "After what happened last night, I think its pretty safe to assume that there are many women who are feeling just as bad as you are."

Nothing seemed to have changed, but all of a sudden William was acutely aware that he'd blown it.

He ventured a glance at her face; raised eyebrow, not-amused frown. He rifled through his inner-encyclopaedia of Sacharissa's expressions and found the particular heading -

Raised Eyebrow, Not-Amused Frown: _You want a -ing bet, Mister?_

Advice - retreat to a safe distance, apologise because You Clearly Don't Know What You're Talking About, then excuse yourself for the most plausible reason you can think of.

William stood up and offered Sacharissa his warmest smile, "Sorry, I clearly don't know what I'm about." he took the empty mug from her hands, "I'll go and get you another, shall I?"

-x-x-x-

_Head hurts._

Susan rolled over, placed her hands over her face, opened her eyes then slowly parted her fingers.

_Ye gods, something blue and white and moving!_

She smothered her scream and, instead, flung out a fist. Having only just woken, her aim was appalling and she missed. What she heard next made her wish she'd sat up and head-butted instead -

"Good morning, Susan."

_Teatime._

She pressed her hands back over her face, pounding head trying to put everything in a vaguely rational order. She went to a gala last night. She made friends. And now she had a blinder of a headache and a sociopathic assassin looming over her. Everything in between talking to Adora, Angua and Sacharissa and waking up was a blur, and probably in self-defence. And that only meant one thing.

Her groan was muffled by her palms, "Oh gods. We went to Biers, didn't we?"

She felt a shift of weight near her feet as Teatime sat on the end of the bed. In her mind's eye, she saw him sitting cross-legged, like a child on a classroom carpet.

"I assume you mean last night. You may have done, but we found you in TGIO."

Susan peered at him through the cracks in her fingers, "Tee-gee-what?"

"TGIO; Thank Gods Its Open." he cocked his head in a way that made Susan feel even more ill, "It was…enlightening, seeing you inebriated."

"Oh gods." she eased herself into a sitting position and squinted at the blond man sitting on the end of her bed, "I wasn't singing, was I?"

His grin widened even more, if that was possible, a grin that promised that innocence radiated from every pore, "A song about a promiscuous hedgehog seemed to be your favourite, Susan. You developed quite an original dancing style, too."

Susan lay back down with a louder groan and pulled the pillow over her face.

"I didn't mean to be impolite, but I made myself breakfast. You've slept in quite late." she opened one eye and saw Teatime gesture to the empty bowl sitting on her bedside table.

And, oh gods, lifting her head to follow him was a bad, bad idea. She felt the bile rise in her throat; she sat up, grabbed the bowl and shoved it into Teatime's hands in one smooth movement. And then she made use of it.

A few minutes later, he coughed awkwardly.

"Are you…finished, Susan?" he grimaced, pushing the bowl away from him. As an assassin, he'd become impervious to the disgust that most people felt for bodily fluids, although this…this was unfamiliar. But he was always happy to learn, yes?

Susan pushed her hair out of her eyes, and then caught the expression on Teatime's face; it was somewhere between bewilderment and revulsion as he held the bowl delicately at arms' length.

She felt her mouth twitch. A snort escaped her. And then a laugh, and then she was in hysterics until her stomach ached and her head began to pound again.

"Susan…" the blond assassin faltered, "Does this mean…we're friends?" he asked hopefully.

She lifted her head and, for the first time, smiled at him.

"Welcome to friendship, Tee-ah-tim-eh."

And then she threw up again.

-x-x-x-

"Urrrghhh…"

Moist grinned as Adora pulled the covers over her head. He pulled the curtain open a little wider.

"Wakey wakey."

"Pssorf, Msst."

"You have a meeting with Dorfl in an hour." he chided gently, pulling the duvet back off her. She swatted at him with a hand.

"I'll cheat, Adora."

"Nnnnng."

He left the room, and returned again a few moments later with a sleepy baby.

"Cheating!" he informed her cheerfully in a singsong voice, placing John down next to her, "Help me wake mum up, will you, John?"

At two months old, most children are good for little more than eating, excretion and crying. A fourth talent that most also possess is the ability to dribble excessively, and John von Lipwig was no exception. He wriggled and gurgled and dribbled onto his mother's face until she was forced to move.

Adora scowled at her husband, bleary-eyed, "That wasn't fair."

"I warned you." he said, grinning. "And after the meeting, we're taking John to see Vetinari, remember?"

"Vetinari?" Adora mumbled, pressing her fingers to her temples as pain pulsed through them.

"Yes. We made him godfather, remember? Because it would be highly entertaining and he wouldn't be allowed to get annoyed?"

She squinted at him, "You mean, because he would be able to look after John if anything happened to us?"

Moist grinned, "That too."


	10. Chapter 10

"Oh, zer baby vas _gorgeous_ , Havelock!"

Vetinari arched an eyebrow. Margolotta's mouth twitched, but she pushed down the irritation.

" _The_ baby _was_ gorgeous." Then she smiled, "I don't get to see many babies. For some reason, not many people want to show vampire overlords their children. I like them, though. When they are not squalling."

"Vampire overlord, Margolotta?" Vetinari arched an eyebrow.

"It works better with the weather than tyrant," she raised an eyebrow back, "My people appreciate dramatic flair. Tradition."

Havelock Vetinari simply smiled and said, without opening his mouth, that those who can make half a city soil their pants with a mere eyebrow movement have no need for dramatic flair.

Oh, Havelock was an _arse_ when he was in a good mood. He was an arse most of the time, in fact, but as with her own people when she was being a bitch, those that still had heads attached to bodies were too afraid to mention it. It was amazing what subtlety, careful attention to what people thought you were up to and a reputation could do for you.

She crossed the room and stood beside him as he watched his beloved city from the window. She traced a nail lightly across the glass, then sighed, "What a shame; it's pouring with rain, so you will not be able to show me the famous Ankh-Morpork Gardens. And I was so looking forward to seeing them."

"A shame indeed. Tomorrow, perhaps."

"Perhaps."

The air was comfortable with contemplative silence as they stood together, Tyrant and Overlord, watching the city bustle past. Then the moment passed, the Overlord picked at the cuffs of her pink jumper fussily, and then broke the quiet reluctantly.

"I have some business to finish up at the embassy. I will see you for lunch?"

Vetinari inclined his head and took her hand, "Madam."

Margolotta paused at the doors and glanced back at Havelock; he had returned to the window, his back to her and his hands clasped. A god, perhaps. A god with all the talents of a predator and all the motives of a guardian. He was the puppet master, the cog turner, a man who did not simply do his job, his life's work, because he could, or because he enjoyed it, but because he wanted the best for his city. Because - she reminded herself of what she had known all along, what she had known even thirty years ago when he had an old man's eyes and a young man's heart - because he could not and would not ever love anything more than he loved Ankh-Morpork.

She smiled, and closed the door behind her.

-x-x-x-

Moist von Lipwig, Adora Belle and John spent the remainder of the day, after their visit to the Patrician and Adora's meeting with the golems, holed up in the study doing Nothing Much. Nothing Much comprised mainly of Moist attending to a few items of paperwork, Adora reading the day's paper and making dry comments about the crossword clues, and John doing what babies did best - making cute noises, pulling strange facial expressions, crying for no fathomable reason and occasionally being sick.

When John dozed off, Moist joined him on the sofa for an afternoon nap whilst Adora finished up her own various bits of work. The rest of the day passed with relatively little occurrence and a strange, ever-present contentment. Moist mentioned this to his wife and, in a moment of self-doubt, how he was afraid that he would lose it to his own adrenaline-junkie tendencies.

She smiled, took out a loan of tenderness and explained to him that if he thought parenting was smooth-riding so far, he ain't seen nothing yet, and he grinned, and paid back the loan with gusto when she pulled him off to bed.

-x-x-x-

Teatime was still there when the school term started. He did not follow her to work, which was a relief, as he had his own contracts to fulfil. When he wasn't working he'd got into a habit of reading a series of particularly grisly slasher novels, which Susan was very happy to provide because it kept him quiet, above anything else. Unfortunately, though, due to his profession and mind of twisted corkscrews and broken glass, he was very good at guessing who the murderer was; she could read him out a description of the body and list the characters and he would be able to tell her, quite easily, who killed the victim and how they did it. (He couldn't, however, ever predict the motive. Susan found this quite interesting and was a little worried at the vast, empty chasm in Teatime's emotional consciousness that other people filled with important things like sympathy and empathy; she couldn't help it, she was a fixer. It was like living with a tall, impossibly intelligent five-year old boy.)

It was bloody annoying, mainly because nine times out of ten he was right. She had half a mind to recommend him to the Watch, if it weren't for the fact that it would probably be him who killed the victim in the first place. And he would drive Commander Vimes totally batty.

So she gave him her books, and in return, he cooked for her. As dead assassins went, he was a pretty proficient cook, a talent that she didn't question for simple reason that she herself was an appalling cook. At night, he curled up on her sofa, quite comfortable due to his cat's ability to fall asleep on anything. There wasn't a spare bedroom and there was no way he was going near her bedroom, because, despite the fact she knew he was as likely to try anything of that nature as a neutered duck, lines had to be drawn somewhere. And she would rather that he stayed in her apartment than have him break in whenever he felt ill.

She hadn't yet finished 'How To Exorcise Your Poltergeist', but it worked as a good, heavy reason when "because we're friends" didn't work to get rid of him during Lobsang's visits.

-x-x-x-

The months went quite quickly, as months tended to. It was just one of those things; at the time every day seemed to be impossibly slow, and then suddenly it was six months later and you hadn't even realised.

It had taken nearly six months for that helpful little voice to pipe up again; he'd been heading out of the door to get a story and had turned around to say goodbye to his wife.

 _William_ , that secretive part of him said, prodding him, _You're going to be a father._

He stumbled out of the _Times_ office and leant on the door, struggling to catch his stolen breath; it was as if, as cliché as it sounded, a large cloud had just been extracted from inside his head. A lot of instincts and feelings that he was sure should have kicked in a few months ago suddenly kicked in, hard.

For a moment, before the insecurities resumed, William couldn't help but grin in sheer delight. And then, in his mind's eye, someone appeared, the image hitting him like a punch to the stomach. _No_ , he thought determinedly, raising his chin as the ghostly figure of his father wagged a condemning finger, _Not like him. I promise._

Shyly, feeling more than a little foolish, he retold the experience to Sacharissa that evening. She didn't laugh, she just smiled, understandingly, and said, "Well, its nice to know that you've finally realised, dear."

-x-x-x-

Sally pestered Angua about the events of the evening all week. She finally gave in on Monday, when they were stuck on a morning patrol together.

"I don't remember much of it, if I'm honest."

Oh, how Sally's eyebrows had waggled at that (in an elegant and vampirical manner, of course), "That's how you know it was a good night! You don't _want_ to remember licking spilt beer off the floor or kissing an old man, do you?"

"I did not kiss an old man!"

"But if you can't remember, how can you be sure?" Sally grinned infuriatingly. The wolf longed to rip it off.

"I just know, okay? I don't do that sort of thing when I'm drunk."

"Ah, but you sing loudly and dance on the bar."

Angua was silent for a few moments, frowning at the young woman beside her, who suddenly looked a little sheepish. Bloody gossiping vampires! "Sally…"

"My friend was there, okay? He left the ball early and was passing outside on his way home."

"He…?" Angua pounced on the moment with relish.

"Oh, shut up." Sally rolled her eyes, "Otto, Otto Chriek, the iconographer from the _Times_. He's a Black Ribboner. He stopped to help Miss Cripslock and heard you and Adora starting up a round of 'Vetinari Has No Balls At All'."

Angua winced. But… "I bet he thinks lady vampire spies are really sexy, you know."

"Shut up!"

Commander Vimes couldn't help noticing, with a grin, how the previously worrying tension between Lance-Constable Sally and Captain Angua had slowly dissolved into nothing more than petty bickering. Not that either of them would admit it, but they would be best friends before the year was out. He remarked this lightly to Carrot, who merely smiled.

-x-x-x-

That afternoon, Vetinari and Margolotta did have lunch. Polite conversation was had, with the odd bit of political banter, subtle innuendo and several unspoken comments interrupting it. Later in the afternoon, the rain cleared and Vetinari had the chance to show his companion around the Ankh-Morpork Gardens before a meeting with the Merchant's Guild.

They had dinner together that evening in the palace dining room which involved similar conversation to lunch, and, afterwards, they finished their game of Thud from the previous evening.

"It is nice to spend time with you again," said Margolotta, studying the troll piece in her hand thoughtfully, "You should get Mr Lipwig to throw more galas."

"Not too many," Vetinari smiled wryly over his steepled fingers, "We wouldn't want people to start enjoying them, would we?"


End file.
